The back field behind Lin Yuan's estate had long been a patch of wild overgrowth—tangled shrubs, tall grass, the occasional stubborn stone peeking through like an old bone from the earth. It bordered the slow, glistening stream that curved past the outer orchard and carried with it the scent of clean water and drifting camphor leaves.
For years, Lin Yuan had left the land untouched.
He had no particular reason. It was neither needed nor intrusive. Just there—like an old companion content to sleep by the window, asking for nothing but space.
But now, with the gentle suggestion of a school lingering in the air, the land began to feel different.
Like it was listening.
Waiting.
---
They started the clearing on a quiet Wednesday morning.
No excavators.
No noise.
Just two pairs of hands, a rake, a spade, and time.
Xu Qingyu wore a broad straw hat and long sleeves to guard against the sun. Her hair was tied back, but a few wisps still escaped, clinging gently to her forehead with sweat.
Lin Yuan brought out two thermoses—one of chilled green plum tea, the other of sugarcane water—and placed them under a tree at the field's edge.
"Are we doing this ourselves?" she asked, raising a brow.
"For now," he said.
"No summoned professionals this time?"
"They'll come later. But first, we listen to the land."
She didn't question it.
Instead, she plunged her spade into the soil and began to work.
---
The rhythm was meditative.
Cut. Pull. Clear. Rest.
Repeat.
Each stroke revealed things long buried—old pottery shards, dried tree roots, even a rusted iron ring tied to a piece of forgotten fence post.
"Someone tried to plant here before," Xu Qingyu noted, lifting a cracked piece of ceramic.
"Or build," Lin Yuan murmured, brushing soil from a carved wooden wedge.
They gathered what they found and placed it all neatly on a cloth, as if making quiet offerings to history.
By midday, the field began to show its shape—sloped gently toward the stream, ringed naturally by elder trees. A breeze passed through it with a sound not unlike breath.
"This place is made for stories," she said.
Lin Yuan nodded.
"Then we'll give it new ones."
---
In the following days, he quietly summoned a landscape restoration expert and an architectural historian.
They arrived without fanfare, dressed plainly, speaking softly, walking slowly through the space like monks in contemplation.
The restoration expert, a wiry woman with crow-feather hair, ran her hand across the soil and said, "This land remembers how to hold children's feet."
The historian, a stooped man with ink-stained fingers, measured the dimensions of the field and muttered, "If I were a classroom, this is where I would sit."
Neither of them spoke about budgets, timelines, or scale.
Only about breath, light, sound, and stillness.
Xu Qingyu listened, absorbing everything.
She was learning how to design—not for politics or development, but for quiet futures.
---
The plan that emerged was simple.
One room—open-air, wood-framed, with sliding bamboo panels and a view of the stream.
A circular garden in the center with raised beds where children could plant their own herbs and vegetables.
A reading circle under a camphor tree, with seats carved from fallen logs.
And a rainwater collection system that would flow into a shallow channel along the walkway—turning even stormy days into a lesson in patience.
No walls, no signs, no gates.
Just space.
Breathing space.
For minds that didn't fit in narrow boxes.
For children who needed room to bloom.
---
Construction began with hand tools and locally sourced wood.
Lin Yuan summoned two carpenters and one mason—retired artisans who only worked on projects that "felt like prayer."
Each plank was sanded by hand. Each joint was made using traditional mortise and tenon techniques.
"We build with silence," one of the carpenters said.
"It stays longer."
Villagers began to take notice.
They didn't ask many questions—just dropped by with bundles of snacks, jars of preserved fruits, and the occasional stool for workers to sit.
Wei Qiang came daily after school to help gather bamboo.
"This place will be for us, won't it?" he asked one day, panting from hauling a pole.
"For everyone," Lin Yuan said. "But especially for those who don't ask for it."
---
Meanwhile, life at the estate went on.
The hydrangeas burst into bloom along the outer path.
The koi pond was cleaned, and a new lily variety planted.
Aunt Zhao began preparing longer lunches, saying, "Work that feeds others needs food that feeds the heart."
She began baking steamed buns shaped like flowers—chrysanthemums, plum blossoms, magnolias—and left them in baskets under linen cloths.
"I don't know how to build walls," she said. "But I know how to fill them."
And she did.
With flavor. With care. With warmth.
---
At night, Xu Qingyu would sit with Lin Yuan in the half-completed garden circle, sketching ideas.
A chalkboard made from slate stone.
A mini-library shelf lined with weatherproof scrolls.
A corner for storytelling—where children could tell tales with puppets or paper cutouts, no script required.
"Will you teach them?" Lin Yuan asked once.
"I might," she said.
"Or maybe I'll just listen."
---
By the third week, the structure was nearly complete.
Birds had already begun to perch on the beams.
Butterflies drifted through as if the flowers had whispered their welcome.
Even Da Huang seemed to guard the place more solemnly—sleeping by the new wooden steps like a silent gatekeeper of childhood dreams.
And one morning, without ceremony, the first lesson began.
---
It was spontaneous.
A group of five local children wandered in—curious, barefoot, half-laughing.
Wei Qiang brought them, grinning.
"They just wanted to look," he explained.
Xu Qingyu was sweeping the floor.
Lin Yuan was arranging small cushions in the reading corner.
No one said "class has begun."
No bell rang.
But the children sat. Quieted.
And then one girl pointed at the camphor tree and asked, "Why does it twist like that?"
Lin Yuan sat beside her and replied, "Because not all trees want to grow straight."
Another boy asked why some leaves turned red before others.
Xu Qingyu answered, "Because some are braver."
A third child asked if she could read aloud from a scroll, even though she only knew half the characters.
Lin Yuan handed her the parchment and said, "Then you'll teach us the rest."
---
For an hour, the space pulsed with questions, laughter, wonder.
No curriculum. No structure.
Just curiosity.
And when the children left, hands stained with charcoal and fingers still curled with excitement, Xu Qingyu looked at Lin Yuan and whispered:
"This is how change should feel."
---
That evening, they lit the first lantern in the center garden.
A round, rice-paper globe that glowed warm as butter in the dusk.
On it, they wrote in brushstroke:
> "Where wonder begins,
answers do not matter."
And as the fireflies rose and the chimes swayed in the summer air, Lin Yuan reached for her hand.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
The field had been cleared.
But something deeper had taken root.
---
[End of Chapter 14 ]